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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535393">Dancing in the Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lskello/pseuds/lskello'>lskello</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amused Gandalf, Bilbo in the Big City, Drinking, M/M, Modern AU, Modern Retelling, Partying, Philadelphia AU, Pining, Thorin is bi server/musician, probably not a happy ending, queer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:11:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lskello/pseuds/lskello</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Long Title: Dancing in the Dark, (Or, Jawn and Back Again)</p><p>In which Bilbo Baggins, a young designer, moves to the city of Philadelphia on Gandalf's invitation and goes on adventures of self-discovery. And some of those adventures include a hot man named Thorin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. On the Doorstep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*This is a NaNoWriMo project I'm working on, and I might make some changes as I re-edit. It's very personal to my own little queer life. Also know that (while having some fluff and joy) this won't exactly have a happy ending: Thorin's relationship to mental health will be a plot point in the back half. But also there is some queer joy mixed in!</p><p>**Content warnings chapter-by-chapter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>Fall 2019</h4><p>The house was on Pine Street - a stately old brownstone with windows tall enough Bilbo could probably stand in them. Three tall stories of brick stretched up before him. It was late afternoon, and the street was bustling with activity: all around the house were cafes, antique shops, kids on skateboards, fashionable people parading the brick sidewalks towards their cosmopolitan destinations. Being so used to his small town, Bilbo was shocked to see that he could pop outside to buy coffee at a shop two doors down, or pick up groceries at a produce store around the corner.. </p><p>Coming to Philadelphia had been a quick decision to make. Since his parents’ deaths two years prior, Bilbo had not done much besides work, eat and sleep. Sometimes it seemed he was stuck on autopilot, as each day slid softly by without being noticed, until suddenly the seasons had changed and Bilbo couldn’t name anything notable that had happened to him in the past few months. The small town community of Westfarthing (where Bilbo had spent his entire life, save for college) had been supportive at first - sending food, inviting him to social events - but after a few months the check-ins tapered off. No one came by anymore to check in on his lonely, rote existence. A few relatives called on holidays, but it seemed no one could be bothered to make a full visit. And then Bilbo had been in that lovely, empty house that his dad had built, alone.</p><p>And so he had nearly fallen out of his chair when he got an email from Gandalf Grey, of all people, whom he barely remembered, and could barely imagine remembered <em>him.</em></p><p>It took him a few minutes to remember the tall, bearded man dressed in funky black clothes and wild tattoos, the man who used to wow his younger self with stories of travelling the world. As a boy, Bilbo saw a tattoo of a majestic flying eagle on Gandalf’s bicep and had stated he wanted one just like it. His mother, Belladonna, had laughed while his father’s mouth opened in horror.</p><p>“A Baggins with a tattoo! Why I never…” Bungo had muttered. </p><p>Belladonna Took had been a painter with a fairly successful career, and before moving with Bungo to his hometown, she had spent time in Philly and New York. There (according to her stories) she was apparently always having wild and spirited times with other young artists. Gandalf Grey was already, well, gray, when she met him in New York, but in his youth he had been a famous member of the 70s punk scene: performing wild and theatrical shows, making clothes out of canvas scraps and safety pins, knowing everyone, and touring the world with his band The Fiery Pinecones. Belladonna always said he was “everywhere, and nowhere, with something clever to say.” </p><p>But Bilbo had mostly forgotten Gandalf’s wandering visits to see the Baggins family, and forgotten Belladonna telling him stories of wild city life as she sat knitting by the fire. As his parents got sick, they talked about the past less and less, instead focusing on the mundane rituals of Bilbo’s care for them: pills taken, doctors visited and what meal they would have for dinner. Gandalf might have sent a condolence card or a fruit basket: Bilbo honestly had no idea, as the time right after their deaths (first Bungo, then Belladonna two weeks later) were a complete black pit in his memory. </p><p>But there he was, sitting alone after the workday on a chilly evening in late September, just after his twenty-seventh birthday. He worked as a“web designer” for the county government, but this mostly consisted of updating the website with new photos and bus schedules every once in a while. It was not exactly fulfilling, nor was it strenuous.</p><p>Bilbo had been mindlessly putzing around on the internet as the evening hours slid by. Then he received the following email.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
From: “Gandalf Grey,” gandthegrey74@hotmail.com<br/>
To: “Bilbo Baggins,” bilbo_baggins@gmail.com<br/>
Subject: Hi bilbo - promising design job for you - respond right away<br/>
Bilbo-</p>
  <p>i’m so terribly sorry about your mother and fathers’ deaths. i wish i could have seen them one last time, but i have been living in japan producing records the past three years and became woefully out of touch. my sincerest condolences.</p>
  <p>the last time I spoke to your mother she told me you had just graduated from college with a graphic design degree. (belated congratulations, by the way.) one of my dearest friends in philadelphia (to which I have recently relocated) is looking for a designer as they set up their new brewery here. my mind alighted on you. your skills would be very useful indeed. let me know ASAP - i’ll be in touch</p>
  <p>best,<br/>
gandalf grey<br/>
</p>
</blockquote><p>And that was how Bilbo Baggins, a 27-year old mediocre web designer, recent orphan, small-town resident and generally anxious person who rarely tried anything new, moved to the big city.</p><p>--</p><p>(Philadelphia certainly is a large city, and especially was to Bilbo Baggins, who at the time rarely travelled over an hour from home. It may occur to some that New York is “the” big city in the US, but Philadelphia has well over 1.5 million people and is very important in its own right. Nor is Philadelphia, as some people casually say, a “mini-New York,” but luckily Bilbo didn’t fall into that trap, having only been to New York once in college.)</p><p>--</p><p>Bilbo approached the door, the only thing in his possession a large rolling suitcase full of clothes and books. He had left his parents’ house in Westfarthing that morning (with a promise extracted from his dotty Aunt Donnamira to check in on it occasionally, lest it get struck by lightning or burgled.) Gandalf had promised the room he was offering in his new house was furnished. (His <em>house</em>, dear God, Bilbo was moving in with a 60-something year old man who he hadn’t seen since he was a child…) He started to knock when the door swept open.</p><p>“Bilbo, my boy! Just in time!” Gandalf stood at the door, grinning, wearing faded black jeans and a TINA TURNER WORLD TOUR ‘87 t-shirt. His graying, long hair was swept into a bun. He took Bilbo by the shoulder and steered him indoors. “I have just made the most delectable pumpkin bread. I think the cardamom really elevated the flavor…”</p><p>Bilbo, mouth slightly agape, said nothing and followed the older man. The house was magnificent and huge - ceilings twice his size, the sun streaming in onto shining wood floors, furniture and tour posters and knick knacks that looked like they came from all over the world (which was likely accurate.) They walked through a living room with a whiskey-colored leather couch drowning in embroidered throw pillows. Despite Gandalf saying he moved into the place a month ago, it had a lived-in feel, in part due to the messiness of its owner. Papers and books were on most surfaces, with phrases scribbled in the margins in small cursive handwriting. There were three whole coat trees, all standing in a row in the foyer, draped in cloaks and hats. In the hall window hung a large stained glass panel - a single tall mountain coming out of a flat landscape, different glass segments throwing blue and gray and green sunlight to portray it. A few words in a foreign alphabet were wrought in red glass below.</p><p>They got to the kitchen at the back of the house, which indeed smelled of warm spices and pumpkin. “Sit down, sit down,” Gandalf urged. He plated a slice of his bread and shoved it to Bilbo with a mug of coffee. Bilbo, never one to refuse a meal, dug in.</p><p>“Thank you, Gandalf, this is truly amazing,” he said.</p><p>“No problem at all, my boy. Welcome to my home! Though I suppose it is now your home as well for the foreseeable future,” he said with a wink.</p><p>“Oh yes, uh- thank you for that as well. It’s very kind of you to let me stay here. When I start getting paychecks I’ll see if I can get a lease for a studio or something.”</p><p>“Nonsense, Bilbo. Stay here as long as you need. Any son of Belladonna Took can take a room in my home.”</p><p>Bilbo smiled a bit uncomfortably and ate more pumpkin bread. The man talked to him as if they were old relations. “So, what had you decide to move to Philadelphia? Why not stay in Japan?” he asked.</p><p>“Oh, Japan is wonderful. You must see it one day. But the projects I was doing there wrapped up, the albums are out, and I wanted to move on to the next thing, you see.”</p><p>“And what thing is that?”</p><p>“Well, a bit of this and that. Writing, assisting in a few friends’ ventures. Making connections,” he said casually.</p><p>Bilbo raised one eyebrow in confusion, but didn’t ask for more detail.</p><p>“Speaking of which, first thing tomorrow I must drop you off to meet Dwalin and Balin at the brewery. They’re beyond excited to have you on board,” Gandalf said.</p><p>“Yes, I’m very eager as well. I know you told me a little on the phone, but what’s their, uh, deal? Or background? Balin and Dwalin?”</p><p>“Balin and Dwalin! Dwalin and Balin! Brothers. I met them long ago,” Gandalf said. He didn’t say where or when. “Dwalin was working as a brewer for years at some mediocre place when he decided to break off and do it better on his own. And Balin seemed very bored in his work, so I told him to leave it and to support his brother’s dream. Dwalin is a genius brewer. They’re nearly finished restoring the brewery warehouse and they desperately need a website, they’re a bit behind on the technology curve…” Gandalf went on a little more about the brothers while Bilbo listened politely.</p><p>“But I suppose you’d like to see your room,” Gandalf finally said.</p><p>Bilbo perked back up. “Yes, absolutely. I am a bit tired from the bus ride…” They mounted the stairs up to the third floor. Bilbo’s room was a big bedroom at the back of the house, light-flooded and simply furnished with a bed, dresser and desk. </p><p>“Not as maximalist as the rest of the house, you’ll see. You can make your own decorating arrangements as you wish!” Gandalf laughed. Bilbo nodded appreciatively. “My rooms are on the second floor, so I won’t be up here bothering you. Not much else up here besides the bathroom and the map room,” Gandalf continued. </p><p>He wasn’t joking, there was indeed another room at the front of the house that was a sort of office full of maps: framed maps, stacks and scrolls of maps, and atlases, supplemented by postcards and old plane tickets tacked to one wall.</p><p>“An old collecting hobby of mine,” Gandalf said with warm nostalgia.</p><p>“I’ve always loved maps, probably because I’ve barely been anywhere outside of Westfarthing,” Bilbo found himself saying. He felt like a kid again. </p><p>Gandalf put his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Well then, let me welcome you again, Bilbo Baggins,” he said. “And now I’ll leave you to settle in.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Warm Welcome</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What do you wear to meet your new employers to whom you’ve never spoken to before, Bilbo wondered. If Gandalf’s dress code was anything to go off, maybe he should just wear black jeans and his most obscure band t-shirt. But what if they expected him to be more professional, sport a button-down? Bilbo had brought most of his clothes from Westfarthing, but nothing seemed to fit the mood of what he had seen in the city. He had a few nice slim pants, basic tees and sweaters, a plaid button-down or two. He could wear his nicest shirt, a pale lavender oxford, but worried it was too conspicuously queer. Did he want to be so obvious about his sexuality to strangers? Any friends of Gandalf must be cool with queer people. Gandalf was definitely gay. Wasn’t he? Bilbo shook his head. </p>
<p>He settled on a blue and green plaid button down layered under a black sweater and jeans. Outside, Gandalf pulled around in a black VW bug to pick him up. It was a bright October day, the ideal of fall. With his hair down, aviator sunglasses on, and beard flowing over his leather jacket, Gandalf looked like some sort of punk wizard James Dean.</p>
<p>“Hop in!” he grinned. Bilbo complied. “Good day, eh? And I hope it shall be a good day for you.”</p>
<p>Gandalf drove like he was invincible, weaving among cars and pedestrians with ease. They headed north out of the tony Rittenhouse Square area to a more industrial part of town until finally, they pulled in front of a spread-out, older brick building that looked like it had seen better days. The building could have been as old as Gandalf’s house, with stone framing the red double doors and larger dirty window panes. A vinyl sign hung outside that read (in a basic Arial, Bilbo thought, quite unfortunate) “FUNDINSEN BROS. BREWING CO.”</p>
<p>“Alright, best of luck, Mr. Baggins,” said Gandalf cheerily.</p>
<p>“You’re not coming with me?” Bilbo asked, sounding a little appalled. </p>
<p>“No, no, I have pressing business elsewhere, as a matter of fact,” Gandalf said. “Go on, they won’t bite!”</p>
<p>Bilbo opened the car door and slowly exited. “Okay… but, wait, how will I-” he started to ask, but Gandalf reached over to close the door, said “Ta-ta!”, and drove away.</p>
<p>Already anxious and now very uncertain of how he was going to get home, Bilbo stood for a few moments and let his nerves rise. Don’t be silly, he thought, the longer you sit here, the more anxiety you’ll let yourself build up, you stupid man! He sighed. Here goes nothing, he thought, and pushed through the brick building’s double doors.</p>
<p>“Fundinsen Bros., Dwalin at your service!” a low voice boomed as the swinging doors loudly closed.  A massive man came out into the small front room. Dwalin was not only tall but as wide as the doorway he just walked through. He had a gleaming shaved head matched with a short black beard, and tattoos crept up from from under his shirt onto his neck, and covered both forearms. (Did everyone in this city have dozens of tattoos?) “Hello, I thought you might be the mailman, but as you look nothing like him, you must be Bilbo!” he said.</p>
<p>“Um, yes, that’s me,” Bilbo said, and shook Dwalin’s hand. “Did Gandalf not tell you I was coming?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he mentioned you’d be by, but didn’t provide the specifics, funnily enough. Odd guy, isn’t he?” Dwalin said.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Bilbo, with a half-hearted smile. “He certainly is.”</p>
<p>“Well, come back to the office and meet Balin. We have a few friends who come to help out from time to time, but it’s just the two of us most days. And now you, of course.”</p>
<p>Balin was a spitting image of his brother, equally massive, though a few years older and with a wild graying head of hair instead of none at all. They settled Bilbo in and told him their story mostly as Gandalf had outlined it: Dwalin had worked for a regional brewery but yearned to have more creativity in what he made, Balin was muddling through a corporate career and wanted to break free of the office life, and they went into business together.</p>
<p>“I’m just not meant to be in an office tower all my life, my boy. I’ll look at spreadsheets all day to help run our business, sure, but it better be for what we want to do and not some corporate overlord,” Balin said.</p>
<p>“ Sure,” Bilbo nodded. “How far along is the business, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, how soon are you opening?”</p>
<p>“We’re looking at being operational before Christmas!” Dwalin exclaimed. “I’ve perfected the River Running Pale Ale and the Ravenhill Pils, and we’re just about there on the Ironfoot IPA.”</p>
<p>“And I’ve gotten partnerships with some local bottle shops for when we start producing,” Balin said. “What I don’t understand, and this isn’t an excuse to call me old, is this website-building, Instagram-branding business. And that’s what you’ll have to do.”</p>
<p>“I’d be glad to! I have some branding and digital marketing projects in my portfolio if you’d like to look through them--” Bilbo started as he took his laptop out of its case. </p>
<p>Balin stopped him. “Oh, no need, we trust Gandalf’s word. You can just get started. Ask us any relevant questions, of course, we’ll give you all the information you’ll need.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bilbo paused, not aware he had arrived to do a full day’s work. “Okay…” he started. “Well, the website would be the hub of everything. Do you have a domain?”</p>
<p>“What’s a domain?”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>After a little patient explanation, Bilbo was able to buy a web domain for the brewery and start setting up the bones of a website. They needed a proper logo, but that would be work for another day. He stayed in the office as Dwalin ported around boxes of ingredients and Balin took several phone calls. Bilbo’s nerves eased as he spent time among the two brothers. They had a hardy friendliness about them, not unlike some of Bilbo’s old neighbors in Westfarthing: always working in a lively way, cracking a few jokes, and they were shockingly un-awkward. As his guard went down, Bilbo let himself focus fully on composing the site, at one point typing so ferociously that Balin laughed and said he admired his dedication.</p>
<p>Late in the afternoon, two people arrived with large boxes in hand. “Aye, Dwalin, we’ve got the old kitchen stuff you wanted,” said one of them, a slim man with long brown hair curling out from under an ear-flap hat. He wore a teal hoodie that looked straight from the eighties and bleached jeans. </p>
<p>“Bofur! And Bombur, too,” Dwalin said. “Meet Bilbo Baggins, our genius computer hacker-slash-new-employee. Then I’ll show you to what sadly passes for the employee kitchen here.”</p>
<p>“You make me sound like I’m from the Matrix,” Bilbo joked as he shook their hands.</p>
<p>The second new companion, a round ginger man in a polka-dotted short-sleeve button up, said quietly to Bilbo, “To these two, you might as well be.”</p>
<p>Bilbo stifled a laugh. Bofur and Bombur went to drop off what ended up being old kitchen appliances and some Tupperware. “Finally, we can brew our own damn coffee,” Balin grumbled. “So many people come in and out of Bofur’s house, he basically has a Goodwill in his basement at any given time.”</p>
<p>“And you should be grateful!” Bofur yelled. “Bilbo, you’re new in town, right? You should come over this Saturday. It’s our annual Halloween spectacular. Costumes very much required.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Bilbo said with a hint of blush, wondering what on Earth he could go as. “Sounds like a blast.”</p>
<p>--<br/>Later that night (after having figured out how to take the bus home, for his roommate/landlord Gandalf was nowhere to be found), Bilbo realized he hadn’t gone to a party or put on a costume for Halloween since he was in college. For his entire adult life since then, the holiday had been an excuse for fanciful pumpkin carving, elaborate cooking and giving heaps of candy away to neighborhood children. Then of course, he had lived with his parents in a tiny village where parties were considered “wild” once they got past a dozen people. And even in college, he lived in a small university town and not a city. A  city which, he roughly calculated, was at least 100 times bigger than that town.</p>
<p>Cracking his fingers past the point where they made sound, Bilbo’s mind once again raced through all the reasons why he was a true and utter idiot to have moved to Philadelphia. Trying to start a new sort of life was absurd. An he was already so behind! He was grateful to Bofur for having taken pity and invited him to his party, but he and his group were all established, with friends and lovers and fuck buddies and a whole network of people to know and be known by. And he was little Bilbo, basically a country bumpkin in a cardigan and glasses.</p>
<p>But… better late than never, right? a part of his brain squeaked. </p>
<p>Right, maybe. If I fuck it all up I can always move back, he thought to himself. He would go to the damn party, have plenty to drink, and try. At least try.</p>
<p>After a few days of working at Balin and Dwalin’s brewery, Saturday rolled around. (There were no further cameos from Bofur or Bombur, but a message was left via Dwalin on where to go: “I’ve spent plenty of good times in Bofur’s house of wonders. I might make an appearance, but I think I’m getting a little old for a rager,” Dwalin added.) Bilbo and Gandalf ate an early breakfast together (omelettes with tomato and basil from Gandalf’s container garden), and then Gandalf announced he needed to spend the day working on a very important writing project. </p>
<p>“An oral history of the first punk festival in Queens… I was there, you see, and my closest friend at the time Radagast headlined…” he explained as he shut himself into his office with a carafe of coffee and an armful of records. </p>
<p>As the sweet, bassy melodies of Thelma Houston reached up to the third floor, Bilbo set about putting together his costume. For a man who once toured the world in a punk band, Gandalf listened to a lot of disco: the Bee Gees while baking, Boney M while pruning the garden, and Thelma and Donna while shut in his office working on one of his many projects. As Thelma jubilantly yelled “Oh, babay-y-y!” Bilbo pulled on his black pants. He rummaged through his clothes and found a long-sleeved shirt with thick black and white stripes, something he had only worn once or twice, and threw it on. In the mirror, he looked… okay. A little cheesy perhaps, but he would soon make a black mask to cover the top half of his face, and hopefully Bofur and his friends would find his robber look amusing. It would be something. Now he just had to wait the, oh, eight or so hours until he could actually head out to the party.</p>
<p>Despite the day having crept by at a snail’s pace, Bilbo seemed to very suddenly find himself at the front of an ornate and weathered Victorian row home in West Philadelphia, coated in fuzzy fake spider webs. Music pulsed from inside. One deep breath and a door bell ring later--</p>
<p>And Bofur was taking him inside, dressed in a white medical coat, green zombie makeup and fake scars on his face. “Doctor Death,” he explained. “And you’re quite the smooth criminal, I might add!”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Bilbo said, reflexively touching the black eyemask he had cut out of paper. “And thanks again for inviting me. It’s safe to say I know about zero people in this city.”</p>
<p>“Of course, man! You’re going to like Philly, I swear to god. City of sibling-ly love right here.”</p>
<p>In the living room, a dozen or so wildly-dressed people stood chatting and laughing, drinking cocktails that were dyed black as ink. The first thing Bilbo noticed is several of them looked <em>definitively</em> queer. Bombur (the bearded red-head he had met earlier in the week) was dressed as the most goth flavor of witch, with black lipstick and a lace shirt topped off with the classic pointed hat. Among the others, there was also an Orville Peck impersonator and a pink flamingo with dozens of taped-on feathers (which wasn’t explicit, Bilbo admitted, but he thought was a <em>pretty</em> gay bird.)</p>
<p>“Everyone, this is Bilbo,” Bofur started. “Bilbo, this is everyone. We’ve got Oin, Gloin, Ori, Nori, Kili, Fili, Bifur, Dori, Bombur, and also our newest roommate, Chris.” He pointed at each person, who in turn gave a nod or a wave. “Bilbo is new in town, so we’re going to show him a good time.”</p>
<p>“Hi guys,” Bilbo said, only slightly terrified.</p>
<p>“How’ve you been?” Bofur asked. “Finding the city alright?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s great. Bigger than I’m used to, that’s for sure, but trying to enjoy it,” Bilbo replied. “Great place, by the way.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. I’ve been here almost five years, and some of these folks just as long. We call it ‘The Mansion.’ Three stories of pure West Philly decadence,” Bofur said.</p>
<p>“I can’t even imagine living with this many people,” Bilbo laughed.</p>
<p>“Well, not everyone--” Bofur started as a young man dressed in an eye-patch and calf-high Doc Martens put himself in their conversation.</p>
<p>“Hey, nice look, burglar,” the man said. “I’m Kili. And I have got to get you a drink.”</p>
<p>“I would be delighted. And you’re… a soldier?”</p>
<p>“I'm Snake Plissken! Oh Bilbo, my friend, you haven’t seen <em>Escape from New York</em>?” Kili said as he filled a cup for Bilbo of the spooky pitch-black cocktail. “Don’t worry, it’s ginger beer, whiskey, and a little too much food coloring. Cheers!”</p>
<p>And so that was that. The partygoers warmly chatted with Bilbo as if they knew him, or at least wanted to. Kili and his brother Fili seemed the youngest, and they made the rest of them play drinking games such as flip cup and a hastily improvised version of “drinking Uno.” Bilbo ended the game with the most cards in his hand, and so had to take two shots of Bacardi as Kili egged him on. Growing warm and chatty, he talked with Oin, a med student who had reluctantly leant Bofur his white jacket, Nori, a social worker dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and fannypack as “tourist dad,” and Dori, the flamingo-dresser, who very nicely told Bilbo all the partygoers’ pronouns and general temperaments. </p>
<p>“Except for Chris, I have no idea,” they said, pointing at the new roommate who sported only a baseball jersey as his costume. “He’s new, and all I know is he likes the Phillies. Obviously.”</p>
<p>Bilbo laughed. He had hardly been in a room with so <em>many</em> (suspected) queer people in years, and let the excitement take him. (Poor Chris, however, had probably never been in a room with <em>fewer</em> straights before this night.) New people streamed in, including Dwalin, who appeared just as a few partiers were starting to dance.</p>
<p>His new employer sported a red-and-white striped shirt and red beanie. “Glad to see you out and about,” he said as he elbowed Bilbo with a smile. A few of the original partygoers came over to greet him, drunk and yelling “Where’s ‘Dwal-do!’” at the top of their lungs</p>
<p>“Bombur! Fili! Ori!” Dwalin greeted. “Hey Fili, is Thorin here? I have something to talk about with him.”</p>
<p>“He should be here once he gets off work. Any minute now,” Fili said.</p>
<p>And that’s when the group noticed a new person had entered the living room: a well-built man with wavy black hair down past his chin, dressed all in black, with a sheen of sweat on his bearded face. He made eye contact with the group of them and paused, smiling, before he quickly pulled something out of his pocket. A pair of fluffy cat ears, on a headband. He put them on and wandered over, looking slightly absurd in with the dainty cat ears on his head.</p>
<p>“Hey everyone,” he said, clapping Fili on the back and accepting a beer. Then he noticed Bilbo. </p>
<p>“Hi. I’m Thorin.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Not at Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorin Durinsen seemed to know every guest at the party, diplomatically chatting with everyone, even poor Chris. He seemed totally at ease with himself, floating from one corner of the room to another or stopping to dance for a song or two with Nori and Ori. Bilbo guessed he was a few years older than Bilbo himself, with the faintest strands of silver mixed in with the black of his hair and beard. Bilbo’s eyes could barely leave him. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed, jealous, attracted, or something more obscure, but he couldn’t deny that he felt beguiled by this man he had said about three words to. </p>
<p>Though he was growing progressively more intoxicated with each whiskey cocktail, Bilbo mostly stuck to the corner, chatting with Bofur or Dwalin or whoever else came by. He was content not to join the dancing or play another drinking game with the ever-energetic Kili. For some minutes he stood alone, regarding the merry scene in front of him as a bit of a dream.</p>
<p>“Burglar!” a voice rang. Bilbo snapped out of his hazy state and saw Thorin coming to talk to him.</p>
<p>“I don’t know if you forgot, but my name is Bilbo,” he said, in a bit of a prickly tone.</p>
<p>“I remembered. Bilbo the Burglar. Very alliterative, you see.”</p>
<p>“Ah… and Thorin the Black Cat. Not alliterative, but I’ll remember.”</p>
<p>Thorin laughed. “I was at work, so I had to improvise a costume. My coworker had these in her backpack and said they would suit me well.”</p>
<p>Bilbo wondered if that meant Thorin was particularly lithe, or moody, or whatever other cat-like trait. “Where do you work?” he asked.</p>
<p>“At Selby’s. In Rittenhouse. You know it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Bilbo admitted. “I moved here four days ago.”</p>
<p>“It’s sort of a fancy new American place. I serve three or four nights a week,” Thorin said. “But I also do music on the side.” Thorin then went into a brief and unpretentious explanation of his musical project, a solo electro outfit where he made moody beats he called “remnants of my goth high school years, but actually cool.”</p>
<p>Bilbo thought he was the coolest man he had yet met. What kind of man says that they’re a musician and actually sounds humble about it? For the thirtieth time that night, he wondered if Thorin could be gay. He noted that Thorin as well had tattoos, though not dozens like Gandalf or Dwalin. He could see a dragon’s head breathing ink-fire peeking out of Thorin’s left shirtsleeve, and was sure the dragon’s body continued down onto his torso.</p>
<p>“Um,” he started, feeling stupid. “That sounds really great. I would love to see the music scene here.”</p>
<p>“There’s always events and stuff. For my shit, I’m hoping to release an EP and have a party in a few months. Only I need a cover for it,” Thorin said.</p>
<p>“For the album? I could throw some ideas together if you want. I work as a designer,” Bilbo offered. Thorin looked at him, pleased.</p>
<p>And so Thorin gave Bilbo his number, with Bilbo promising to text soon and set up a discussion about all things graphic design. Before long, Thorin rejoined the main throng of people. The night soon ended, though not before the entire crowd drunkenly sang Semisonic’s “Closing Time” together to give the party a proper finale. Even Bilbo joined in, linking arms with Bofur and Dori to offer his own rousing repetitions of <em>I know who I want to take me home.</em></p>
<p>But then, he took himself home, and slept.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>“How was your night, young Baggins? You look a bit out of sorts.” Gandalf was sitting in the kitchen with tea and the newspaper when Bilbo ambled in. </p>
<p>It was 11:30 AM on Sunday morning and he had just dragged himself out of bed in search of coffee. His hair was a crumpled mess, his eyes red and drooping, and his body weighed down like human lead with the heaviness of last night’s alcohol consumption.</p>
<p>“I haven’t really been out like this in awhile,” Bilbo explained. “I went to a friend of Dwalin’s for Halloween, and maybe misjudged my tolerance.”</p>
<p>“Ah, to Bofur’s place, I would reckon.”</p>
<p>“You know him?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and he’s an exceedingly pleasant fellow.”</p>
<p>“How do you know him? Or Balin and Dwalin, anyways?” Bilbo asked as he sat down and nursed his coffee.</p>
<p>“You meet all sorts of people when you’ve been alive as long as I have. Bofur I think I met at a community potluck, in fact,” the older man replied. Bilbo wondered which community that would be. “In any case, I’m glad to see you’re getting out and about, Bilbo. It will be quite good for you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. It’s a nice change, I admit.”</p>
<p>“It’s heartening to see young people explore more of the world,” Gandalf said, with a glint in his eye. “Lets you see all that you’re capable of. Keep on going out to parties, Bilbo: make friends, go on dates. Plenty of dates!”</p>
<p>Having not gone on a date in several years, Bilbo almost laughed. “I’ll do my best,” he said.</p>
<p>But it wasn’t out of the question, especially with his new acquaintances, to imagine queer romance in his life again. He was shy in that sphere by nature, which wasn’t helped by the rather sparsely populated gay community in Westfarthing. Or rather, it’s single-digit population. But here was a city that had an actual section of the map demarcated “Gayborhood”, and seemed as accepting as anywhere Bilbo had ever been. He felt optimistic.</p>
<p>Something in that train of thought reminded him that he had promised to text Thorin Durinsen today. Oh, right, probably the fact that he thought Thorin was stupidly hot. Well, he thought, that had been a drunken fancy regarding a man he had only just met. He didn’t know Thorin at all, and wasn’t going to <em>pine</em> for a possibly-straight stranger (never mind his attraction.) He should focus on creating friends, first of all. And Thorin seemed like a perfectly competent friend.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>A few curative mugs of coffee and one breakfast sandwich later, Bilbo felt comfortable enough to reach out to Thorin, who responded not one minute later:</p>
<p>
  <em>hey glad you texted! good to meet you last night. for the ep cover, i want to get started right away. how does $500 sound?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Five hundred… dollars? Bilbo typed in response. I can do something for free, it’s no trouble</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>no, i want to make sure your artistic skill is valued</em>
</p>
<p>Bilbo was half-convinced Thorin was being sarcastic. No one gave young designers much more than “exposure” as payment, much less half a thousand dollars for a fairly straightforward project.</p>
<p>
  <em>If you insist, I guess I'll take your money, he said. I’ll try to do something you really like.</em>
</p>
<p><em>sounds perfect. i’ll email you over the contract to sign</em>, Thorin replied.</p>
<p>Before Bilbo could respond, his phone dinged again. <em>i hope you don’t mind. i’ve just been burned before in deals like this. appreciate it :)</em></p>
<p>Ten minutes later an email arrived with an eleven page attachment. Seriously? Bilbo thought. He wondered what sort of bad arrangement prompted Thorin to formalize this favor in such a way.</p>
<p>“‘This agreement constitutes the entire agreement between the parties, and replaces and supersedes all prior understandings and agreements, whether written or oral, with respect to the subject matter described…’” Bilbo read aloud. And that was just page one. “My god, Thorin.”</p>
<p>Yet he signed it and returned Thorin’s email quite punctually, and looked forward to the task.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Queer Lodgings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For our young protagonist, one week’s passing felt both like an hour and a year. Bilbo spent his days at the brewery with Balin and Dwalin setting up the Fundinsen Bros. Brewing Co. website, and got a mostly-functional version published (though without many of the more colorful details, such as Dwalin’s stories on how he imagined up certain beers. “Oakenshield Oatmeal Stout, now there’s a good one. I was walking around the city and saw this massive squirrel climbing a tree with a huge nut in its mouth, bigger than its own face. We made eye contact, and he looked me fiercely in the eye. And I suddenly dreamed of a nutty dark brown stout, strong as this squirrel and his nut...” and so forth.) Dwalin and Balin scurried busily around, always occupied. Balin’s phone was glued to his hand, Dwalin was always running from tank to tank, and the first official batches of beer were put to brew.</p><p>Dwalin told Bilbo his next task was to illustrate labels for each variety of beer. Bilbo reminded him they didn’t yet have a proper logo. “Just put our name in one of those fancy fonts, with the little bumps at the end of the letter,” Dwalin said, waving his hand.</p><p>“Serifs?” Bilbo replied.</p><p>“Sure. And fun colors, too.”</p><p>Bilbo worked out a simple text treatment in a strong, stout serif: it looked old-world, almost Medieval. He threw the white text onto a few “fun” colors for Dwalin to choose from, in addition to a sensible maroon.</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Dwalin passed over the bright purple, the cyan and the scarlet, and went for the maroon option as Bilbo hoped he would. “Now we need a Running River Pale Ale by the end of this week, lad!”</p><p>--</p><p>During the nights, Bilbo cooked and ate dinner with Gandalf, if he was around. Half the time the man didn’t even sleep in his own home, and Bilbo wondered if his role was really that of a house-sitter. But on other nights they ate several-course meals they improvised, cooking side-by-side in the drafty kitchen: root vegetable salads with dressing magicked together from the pantry and gingery curried chickpeas and bacon-and-spinach frittatas. Their meals were often supplemented with choices from Gandalf’s diverse collection of marijuana. Gandalf puffed from his bowl and told stories of the seventies and eighties, of New York, Paris and Tokyo, making his companion feel like a young boy again. At times Bilbo ventured to request stories of his mother, and Gandalf obliged him by recounting long nights spent in her Bowery studio, drinking wine and discussing Basquiat.</p><p>As the month transitioned from October to November, Bilbo received a text from Bofur inviting him over for a “daylight savings” party. The supposed goal was to enjoy the last of the evening daylight before an hour was repeated and the sun started setting in the late afternoon. Bilbo was glad to go, for friendship of course, and also to see Thorin, who hadn’t responded to his email of first sketches for an album art idea. That fact was making Bilbo quite nervous, and he wanted to make sure he hadn’t failed utterly.</p><p>Taking the bus across the bridge to West Philly after work, Bilbo arrived as the sun was almost down above the block of rowhomes. So much for celebrating the sunshine. But he supposed it was more an excuse to gather than anything, and so couldn’t complain.</p><p>The party turned out to be a dinner party, with Bofur and Bombur serving him up a hot bowl of red curry vegetables over rice. He recognized most of the faces as partygoers from the previous weekend, and luckily remembered most of their names. To test him, Bofur made him confirm the names aloud.</p><p>“Kili, Fili, Dori, Nori, Bofur of course… Ori?” Bilbo said, facing a serious-faced young man in an argyle sweater.</p><p>“Oin,” said the man stonily.</p><p>“Sorry, Oin,” he said. “Oin, and <em> you’re </em> Ori.” </p><p>He got the remaining names right without misstep. “Let us toast to the last day before the depressing darkness of winter! May we all get enough Vitamin D to survive,” Bofur announced, and then they ate. Thorin was sat at the opposite end of the long table, out of earshot, and Bilbo didn’t get to talk to him until they moved on from dinner to beverages.</p><p>Beer in hand, Bilbo plopped down in a newly-empty seat next to the subject of his worries. Thorin, wavy hair in a bun, was wearing a lemon-yellow screen printed band tee and black corduroys. Chin resting on his hands, he was deep in focus on a story Bofur was telling about a particularly good South Philly thrift store.</p><p>Bilbo poked his shoulder to break his attention. “Ahem, Thorin.”</p><p>The other man whirled around. “Bilbo. How are you?”</p><p>“Not bad. Um, did you get my email from the other day? About the cover drafts?”</p><p>“Yes, did I not respond?”</p><p>“I didn’t get anything,” Bilbo said. Thorin’s brow furrowed and he pulled out his phone. After some frenetic typing, he sighed.</p><p>“Saved in drafts. Just perfect,” he muttered. “Sorry about that. I’ve had the wildest week. I liked ‘em, though. Particularly the one with the mountain.”</p><p>Thorin was referring to the last of Bilbo’s three drafts, a digital collage in which the base photo was a mountain in the starry dark, wisps of fog nearly obscuring the peak. On its slope Bilbo had placed all sorts of houses: row homes, RVs, log cabins, farmhouses, tiki huts, suburban cookie cutter colonials galore. The little buildings cluttered the mountainside and were made to light up the darkness like a string of lanterns. Thorin mentioned the “theme” of the EP was finding home, and Bilbo had remembered the collages he used to make as a kid with his mother: pictures cut from every magazine in the house to make fantastical landscapes, models lounging among the surreal scenery. At the bottom of the image <em> THORIN DURINSEN </em> was emblazoned in all caps in thick rounded type.</p><p>“I’m glad you like it,” Bilbo said, suddenly warm in the face.</p><p>“It’s phenomenal, Bilbo. It’s what I didn’t know I wanted. I do have a few nitpicky asks for you, though. Do you think you can come cover soon and talk about it?”</p><p>“Sure,” Bilbo nodded.</p><p>“Sorry to run out on you tonight,” Thorin said, standing and clearing his dishes. “I have to get Kili back to our place to finish an econ essay by midnight.”</p><p>“Your place?” Bilbo asked. He’d thought that this “Mansion” was everyone’s place, including Thorin’s.</p><p>“Yeah, we have a house over in Pennsport,” Thorin said. “What, did you think I lived here? With these punks?”</p><p>Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, I<em> may </em>have thought this was a big co-op with all of you in it as roommates…”</p><p>Thorin laughed. “It’s big enough, but for thirteen people? I would go mad! No, it’s just Ki, Fi and I.”</p><p>“Kili’s your roommate? Must be a non-stop party.”</p><p>“My big sister would kill me if I let him even<em> drink </em> at my place,” Thorin said, studying Bilbo’s confused face with clear joy. He explained, “Kili and Fili are my nephews. Kili moved in with me to go to Temple two years ago, and Fili tagged along.”</p><p>Bilbo said “oh” and watched as Thorin broke into a stupid grin. “I’ll text you about coming over, though,” he added, before announcing “<em> Nephews </em>of mine! Time to go.” </p><p>Kili grimaced at his <em> uncle </em> (a word that still seemed, to Bilbo, wholly foreign from the man standing next to him) from across the table. A brief flash of embarrassment arose on his face, a remnant of the teenagehood that he’d probably only recently left.</p><p>Good-natured Fili, though, goaded his brother out of his chair. “C’mon, Ki, old <em> Uncle Thorin’s </em> gotta be in bed before nine.”</p><p>The rest of the party socialized until late, sharing stories while half paying attention to a game of gin rummy. Bilbo’s mind was stuck on Thorin’s joking grin as he said that the two boys were his nephews--the fact that he knew Bilbo would be surprised and wanted to relish the look on his face. To see the cogs turn in his mind as he reconciled this news with his existing impressions of Thorin: the musician, the diplomatic conversationalist, the hard worker, the kind of guy who would pay people fairly for their art, the… family man? Bilbo wondered how much older his sister must be, and what the dynamic of being a single (Bilbo silently hoped) thirty-something man living with his adult nephews was like.</p><p>As Bilbo was pondering leaving for the night, Dori asked him outside for a cigarette. He wasn’t a smoker but joined them on the back porch anyways. Sans their flamingo costume, Dori was a small, kind-faced, bespectacled person, looking like the ideal of coziness in their oversized sweater and brown corduroys. They had a dainty septum piercing and short brown curls that they often ran their fingers through. Bilbo noticed their low voice was among the quietest of the often-rowdy group.</p><p>Dori lit their cigarette and put it to their mouth. “So, how are you doing with all this? Hope you’re feeling comfortable among our raucous little crew.”</p><p>“Yes! I mean, I appreciate you all inviting me to things, despite hardly knowing me,” Bilbo said. He was sincere, and had been touched by the outreach. “And you’re pretty quiet, but you blend in fine with the rest.”</p><p>“I’m glad to have my gaggle of extroverts to bring out that side in me. But I’m also glad my room is on the top floor.”</p><p>“So you… <em> definitely </em> live here.”</p><p>“Yes, I do,” Dori said. “It can be a trip. But if you’d like, we can form an introverts’ alliance. Dip out of parties for a breather, when we need it.”</p><p>“I’d like that,” Bilbo said. He fluttered his hands across his lap and asked Dori something he’d been wanting to know. “I don’t mean to pry, but are all of you, like, queer?”</p><p>Dori laughed. “It’s a pretty queer group. Why, you are, aren’t you?”</p><p>Bilbo had not said the sentence in awhile. He preferred not to talk about his intimate life, as much from being scared as from wanting a bit of privacy. But he endeavored to break that habit, and so said it. “I’m gay, yes.”</p><p>“Bilbo! I’m so happy you found our little gay group,” Dori cheered.</p><p>“But when you say ‘pretty’ queer, does that mean everyone?”</p><p>“Well not Chris, unless I’m woefully mistaken. Kili and Fili, I’m not sure, but they’re young enough that they may not yet know themselves. But for everyone else, I’d say ‘pretty queer’ is accurate.”</p><p>“Including Thorin?”</p><p>Dori shot him an amused glance. “I thought I noticed your eyes for him,” they said. “Thorin’s bi, and he’s not dating anyone as far as I know. But I don’t think he’s like… emotionally available. He’s been super busy ever since I’ve known him, working and making music and helping to pay for Kili’s school.”</p><p>Bilbo nodded. He felt a small drop in his stomach, despite the tale he had told himself about not crushing on Thorin. He tried to silo that feeling and shove it to the side. It wasn’t right to make hopes about someone he still barely knew, about a version of them that probably didn’t even exist. </p><p>“I was just curious,” he said to his new friend, with a forced casualness they must have noticed. Bilbo was not a good liar.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Inside Information</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh wait so this chapter is really good and emotional. Also RIP Alex Trebek!</p><p>*Content warning: grieving for dead parents</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three weeks after moving to the city of Philadelphia, Bilbo thought he should be feeling pretty pleased with himself. He had a job that was interesting and creative, was building a circle of friends, and was currently living rent-free in Gandalf’s third-floor bedroom. (He should really talk to Gandalf about some form of payment.) His room was decorated with prints and posters, and he had even purchased a piece of furniture, a sleek glass bedside table that would be out of place in any other room of the house. The month of November approached its halfway point, and colorful leaves coated the streets and sidewalks. He became more adjusted each day to the city soundscape: the random sirens, occasional mysterious yelling, the kids skateboarding by whose wheels made a rhythmic scraping noise as they passed.</p><p>Yet something was still gnawing inside him. Bilbo reasoned that perhaps this was just a hangover from having lived two years alone in his grief, but it persisted on. It was the feeling that this was somehow not real, that somehow he deserved neither to live comfortably nor among others. This feeling cast his new friends’ warmth as mere politeness, the job offer as a fluke, and Gandalf’s hospitality as some old duty to a dead friend.</p><p>On nights that he didn’t have plans, Bilbo would walk in the after-work darkness to calm his mind. Usually he started by walking through the hubbub of Rittenhouse Square, a few minutes away, to check on the people spending their evenings outdoors by choice or necessity: the readers and dog owners, the groups of friends, the buskers and unhoused people. Then he either veered east to pass through the shopping streets, or west to wander along the Schuylkill River and feel small among the muddled reflections of skyscrapers in the water. He toyed with going to where Thorin said he lived, in Pennsport, but couldn’t justify an hour’s walk each way.</p><p>However, he ended up there one Friday night by Thorin’s own invitation. Thorin wanted to discuss the EP cover project, and finally had a spare evening to do so. Bilbo took two buses to get to the neighborhood of Pennsport, which lay in the southeast part of the city, abutting the Delaware River. It was a residential area full of two-and-three story row homes that was decidedly more down-to-earth than Rittenhouse. This part of town was far enough away that one could properly see the city skyline: the futuristic Comcast skyscrapers and the older brick towers meshing together to create a bright halo in the sky.</p><p>Bilbo found the skinny, three-story brick home around seven, tucked on a side street between Wharton and Reed. A little iron mailbox was tacked next to the door, with a taped-over Post-it note reading “Durinsen.” Fili answered the door in sweats and ushered him to the kitchen with offers of beer or tea. “Thorin will come down in a jiff,” he said. </p><p>“Thanks,” said Bilbo. “Where’s Kili?” </p><p>“Off on a date, though he doesn’t want me to know it. Some redhead chick he won’t tell us about.”</p><p>“If we don’t get to the bottom of it, Dís surely will,” chimed Thorin, who then bounded into the kitchen. He looked freshly out of the shower. “My sister,” he added for Bilbo’s sake, and sat down next to him. “Shall we have a look at these designs?” Straight to business, Bilbo thought.</p><p>They spent the next hour huddled over Bilbo’s laptop, making minute changes to the digital collage. Thorin wanted references to his lyrics nestled into the cover: an orange tabby in a window to match a song called “Cat People,” and other such things. Bilbo warned him that some of his changes might not actually be visible once the cover was zoomed out, but Thorin insisted. He had opinions about the composition and color as well: he was showing shades of true perfectionism. Bilbo, who preferred to live by the adage <em> Done is better than perfect </em>, nevertheless indulged him. It was satisfying to see Thorin’s vision through, no matter the small scale.</p><p>When Thorin was mostly satisfied, he offered to make Bilbo a drink to celebrate. “Any requests? I’ve been in the industry long enough I can probably do anything.”</p><p>“Bartender’s choice,” Bilbo said. Thorin did something clever to an orange, and served both of them a citrus-and-whiskey cocktail over ice. </p><p>“Cheers,” he said. The drink was, of course, delicious. After a few moments of companionable silence, Thorin’s eyes seemed to go a bit out of focus, his thoughts on something far away.</p><p>“Thorin?”</p><p>“Oh, sorry, I must have zoned out. Didn’t get much sleep this week.”</p><p>“Want me to head out so you can catch up?”</p><p>“What kind of host would that make me? My mother would’ve killed me,” Thorin said. He moved them into the living room and put on a record. The narrow row home rendered all the rooms thin and long, which made the living area feel like an extremely homey hallway. They chatted about music and food and Thorin’s shady landlord as Thorin occasionally brought out more cocktails. Bilbo asked him about his musical inspirations and gigs he had done, enjoying the way he talked about himself, full of humility and candor. Fili, who worked as a barista and had to wake before sunrise, joined them for one drink and went to bed. After three cocktails, Bilbo became more talkative and shared his impressions of Philadelphians.</p><p>“First of all, everyone has a tattoo, if not a dozen. It’s like you can’t cross city limits without one. Does it have to do with being ‘tough’?”</p><p>“I take it you don’t have one?” Thorin asked. Bilbo nodded no, and was a bit blatantly eyeing the one on Thorin’s upper arm. “Maybe being tough, but it’s also just a ‘do whatever you want, fuck it, no regrets' kind of attitude. Not to mention they’re cool.”</p><p>“And also, Philadelphians can be so blunt! They don’t fuck around when asking you to get out of the way or telling you off. But then the bus drivers let everyone on for free. And Gritty! I don’t understand Gritty, Thorin, I really don’t.”</p><p>“Have you ever played D&amp;D?”</p><p>“No, but I know of it.”</p><p>“Well there’s an alignment chart, including ‘chaotic good.’ Gritty is chaotic good embodied. He’s Philly’s id. He’s deranged and he knows it, but that also means he’ll like, punch a cop in the face for you.”</p><p>Bilbo thought he noticed the hint of an accent or impediment in Thorin’s speech: words like “chaotic” seemed more breathier on the “k” sounds than before. But his alcohol tolerance still wasn’t very high, and his buzzed mind didn’t think more of it. They continued chatting until almost eleven, at which time Kili burst in and slammed the door.</p><p>“Kili!” Thorin said jovially. “Shhh, Fili is sleeping.”</p><p>“Well, you better not yell things at me then,” his nephew said. “Hi, Bilbo,” he added. Kili looked visibly annoyed, hands shoved in his pockets. He slumped down on the couch without taking off his jacket or beanie. </p><p>“Bad date?” Thorin asked. </p><p>“I just don’t know what she wants from me,” Kili muttered, suddenly looking very young. “I don’t know if she likes me or not.”</p><p>“Have you talked about it?” Bilbo ventured. “Like clear, direct communication?”</p><p>Kili scoffed. “Bad idea,” he said. </p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“You can’t just be all <em> direct </em> with someone! You have to play it cool, and be impressive, and get them interested,” Kili said, reminding Bilbo that he was glad to no longer be twenty years old.</p><p>“All I’m saying is I don’t think it’s a bad thing to say ‘Hey, I like you, let’s see what happens,’” Bilbo said. “Besides, I’m sure if she’s spending time with you, she does like you already.”</p><p>Kili scoffed again and went into the kitchen to get some water. “Sure, maybe.”</p><p>Bilbo turned to Thorin. “Is he okay?”</p><p>“He’s fine, just kid stuff,” Thorin said with a yawn. “Thanks for saying that to him. I don’t think I have the energy for a pep talk tonight.”  </p><p>Bilbo decided that was a sign to call it a night, and caught a car share home. His own house seemed silent and large in comparison. He had enjoyed the Durinsen house, despite Kili’s bad mood at the end, and hoped his tipsy night in with Thorin would bode well for their friendship. Only a shadow of doubt crept into their interactions, and Bilbo was able to shake it off. He should believe what he had just told lovelorn Kili: that spending time with people was an act of affirmation, an act of warmth, in itself. </p><p>---</p><p>Apparently Thorin felt the same way, because from then on their conversations progressed from infrequent professional check-ins to casual banter. They texted several times a week, and Bilbo was glad. He had graduated from someone to invite to group gatherings to someone to have a one-on-one rapport with. However, the downside of being Thorin’s friend was that he was terribly busy. He seemed to have pushed the truth about serving “three to four nights” a week during their first encounter, and Bilbo didn’t see him in person again for two weeks.</p><p>Luckily, he was also forging a friendship with Dori, his introverted comrade. Dori worked at a Center City housing non-profit and they often got drinks or sat in the park when the workday was over, occasionally with books or one of Dori’s embroidery projects. It was a peaceful reprieve from some of the other activities The Mansion put on, such as small parties and the occasional basement punk gig. </p><p>Back in that realm, Bilbo attended his first-ever house show when a shoegaze-y band that Bofur knew, called “Teenage Vet School,” played in the basement one weekend. Not knowing who would be there, Bilbo agonized over his look and couldn’t seem to make any combination of clothes work. How queer should he attempt to look, or how neutral? Should he be sleek or pleasantly unkempt? Eventually he took scissors to a Bronski Beat t-shirt, with the aim to show the slightest strip of his pale stomach, and paired his new crop top with gray jeans and maroon Chelsea boots. Gandalf gave him an approving “Sharp look!” as he left the house. Upon arriving he saw that Kili and Fili had shown up for the gig, but Thorin was again at work, and Bilbo hated that his absence made him more interesting.</p><p>One evening a few days later Bilbo received a text from Thorin. </p><p><em> got cut early at work. it was super slow, </em> it said. <em> you around? want to hang? </em></p><p><em> Totally, </em> Bilbo replied. <em> I’m at my house. Gandalf ‘s not around. Feel free to come by. </em></p><p><em> be there in a few minutes </em>, was Thorin’s response. </p><p>Bilbo, who had been taking advantage of Gandalf’s absence to lounge in flannel pajamas and zone out to <em> Jeopardy! </em>, raced upstairs to change. By the time he threw on jeans and a sweater the doorbell rang.</p><p>Thorin entered the house with a bottle of red wine gripped in each hand. “My boss’s apology for cutting me early.”</p><p>“You knew how to find the place?” Bilbo questioned. He noticed Thorin hadn’t asked for the address.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, I helped Gandalf move in, actually,” he said, and sat down on a green velvet armchair in the living room. “After hauling all this I feel like I deserve to lounge on it for a bit. Where is Gandalf, anyways?”</p><p>“He went to a conference in France, I think, but it could be Fiji for all I know,” Bilbo said. He brought in a corkscrew and two wine glasses, and set them down. But the first bottle was a twist-off, and Thorin had already unscrewed the cap and was ready to demonstrate his graceful server’s pour.</p><p>“Here you go,” he said, passing the glass gingerly into Bilbo’s hand.</p><p>“With your wine and my <em> Jeopardy! </em> marathon combined, we have quite the party here,” Bilbo joked.</p><p>“I hope you’re not kidding. I love <em> Jeopardy! </em> Little 90s me definitely had a crush on Alex Trebek.”</p><p>Bilbo let out a nervous laugh, because Thorin had definitely just given proof of his attraction to men right in front of him. “I’m down to keep watching. You <em> do </em> have to yell out if you know the answer, though.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t watch any other way,” Thorin said. “One of my favorite pastimes. And I need distraction from my subhuman landlord not returning my emails.”</p><p>“Him again?”</p><p>“Yeah. Scumbag’s been avoiding me,” Thorin muttered. He had filled in Bilbo a little on this saga, in which Thorin thought his landlord was trying to sell off their house without informing him. </p><p>“Unforgivable. But let’s focus on Alex and wine now,” Bilbo suggested. And so they did. Thorin’s brief storminess passed and for two episodes, they shouted half-certain answers at the screen and cheered on the most endearingly awkward contestants. Thorin aced a European history column as Bilbo did pretty well with literature and words. Neither could figure out any questions in a basketball-themed category, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. A lack of masculinity-proving sports talk was a good sign.</p><p> The first bottle of wine evaporated quicker than Bilbo had intended, but he figured the potential hangover was worth the fun he was having.  “Time for the second bottle?” Thorin asked.</p><p>“Sure, I put it in the kitchen,” Bilbo responded, and Thorin stood to retrieve it.</p><p>When he returned he sank down next to him on Gandalf's old leather couch instead of the armchair. The soft brown leather, holding two bodies, now sunk down so low it nearly consumed them. Thorin shook the new bottle of Cabernet towards Bilbo’s face and grinned. “Will you pass me the…what’s-it-called, the <em> khveden </em>? I forget the English word.”</p><p>Bilbo raised one eyebrow. “The corkscrew?” he said. Thorin nodded, and Bilbo handed it to him. Thorin uncorked the bottle in one swift motion.</p><p>“What do you mean you forgot the English word? It’s not your first language, is it,” Bilbo guessed. He didn’t move to restart the paused television.</p><p>“Guilty,” Thorin laughed. </p><p>“I knew it! I knew you had an accent when you’d been drinking. And other times, too, particularly when yelling at Kili.”</p><p>“Well, looks like I’ve been found out by one Bilbo Baggins.”</p><p>“‘Found out?’ Jesus, what does that mean? Are you in witness protection? Where are you from?”</p><p>“No, no, stop, I’m just kidding,” Thorin said, pausing to down half a glass of wine. “Though it’s true I don’t like to talk about it much. Not in casual conversation anyways. I’m originally from a country you’ve probably never heard of.”</p><p>“Try me,” Bilbo said. “I’m pretty good with geography.” </p><p>“Erebor.”</p><p>“Huh.” The name rang a faint bell in Bilbo’s mind, but he couldn’t place it. “Guess I need to revisit my atlas.”</p><p>Thorin chuckled; it was almost a low, amused growl. “I’m not surprised, don’t worry. We’re a tiny little place in Southeastern Europe, barely a few towns and some mountains.”</p><p>“Like Luxembourg,” Bilbo murmured.</p><p>“If you have to make comparisons.”</p><p>“How old were you when you came here? And why did you leave?”</p><p>“I was eleven. Things got really bad in Erebor when I was a kid, politically. Had been for a while, but I was too young to realize most of it. But then it became lots of civil unrest, an attempted military coup that ended in a bloodbath. There were bombings in my hometown what felt like all the time. Eventually it was safer to just leave,” Thorin paused, and thumbed the stem of his wine glass. “My grandpa was put in jail by the opposing party… and my mom and little brother died in a market bombing.”</p><p>Thorin broke off his eye contact and looked down at his knees. Bilbo’s heart jumped out of his rib cage towards his friend. “Thorin! Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That’s a terrible thing to go through.”</p><p>“Yes,” Thorin deadpanned, and sipped more wine. </p><p>“Thank you for telling me,” Bilbo said. “Sorry to bring it up, sort of unnecessarily.”</p><p>Thorin finally lifted his gaze back to meet Bilbo’s. “No, it’s fine. It’s been over twenty years. And I thought you ought to know, if we’re going to be hanging out and all.”</p><p>“Everyone else knows?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, I’ve known those guys for years. And most of them I met from growing up in the Ereborian community anyways.”</p><p>“Wait, what?” Bilbo sputtered in surprise. “Are you saying that I’ve unknowingly inserted myself into this close-knit Ereborian immigrant community?”</p><p>“Well, almost,” Thorin said, finally smiling a little again. “Most of them were just born here to Ereborian parents. And also, you didn’t insert yourself--Gandalf brought you. And we <em> wanted </em> to have you.”</p><p>Those final words flooded his torso with a floating sensation. Bilbo felt warmth spreading from his chest up to his cheeks, and he was sure they were blood-red. He giggled, not knowing what else to do in the face of this kind statement. </p><p>“Thank you,” he said at last. “I know it’s not the same, but as we’re sharing traumatic deaths, both of my parents died recently. Just over two years ago. And it’s the most painful fucking thing.”</p><p>Thorin grasped Bilbo’s hand and held it. “I’m so sorry, Bilbo,” he said.</p><p>Bilbo felt his eyes seize up with tears, and then suddenly he was crying. He rarely talked about his parents: they mostly lived in his thoughts. It had been awhile since he was close enough with another human to divulge such things, and so the ghosts of his mom and dad rarely got to venture out of their son’s mind, to be known by new people or even to have their names said aloud. He felt a twinge of relief to speak their existence to Thorin.</p><p>They sat in the tender silence for a short while as Bilbo cried. He felt fully gripped by it and though he tried, couldn’t stop the sobs from coming. Maybe Thorin teared up as well, but Bilbo couldn’t know, his own vision was so blurred during the moments they sat wordless in their grief. As quickly as it came on, however, his crying ceased and instead became a laugh. </p><p>“How absurd this all is. It just... comes out of nowhere to devastate you sometimes.”</p><p>“Believe me, I know,” Thorin said. “Another glass?”</p><p>“Please,” Bilbo said. Thorin moved to refill both glasses, and there was a cold absence where his hand had been. Bilbo wiped his face with the ribbed cuff off his sweater. “So are you going to teach me a few words of Ereborian?”</p><p>“<em>Khuzdul, </em> not Ereborian, first of all. And after <em> khveden </em> , I supposethe next most important thing is <em>  Âkminrûk zu, </em> which you can say to thank me for this wine.”</p><p>“<em>Âkminrûk zu, </em> Thorin.”</p><p>“<em>Yamal </em>, Bilbo.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6: Fire and Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following morning Bilbo woke up at a quarter to nine. Panic seared through him: there was no way he was going to get up to the brewery in fifteen minutes, not to mention (as he stood and noticed in the mirror) his eyes were red and puffed up like over-proofed dough. The top lids were swollen and heavy, making the eyes themselves look small and far away. Maybe a whole bottle of wine and full-body sobbing weren’t a good mixture. He remembered from other anxiety- or grief-induced bouts of tears that there was no real way to get the swelling to go down besides time. It was a ridiculous trade-off: Bilbo often felt better after a cathartic cry, but hated the physical evidence it left. He supposed he could pawn it off as allergies to Balin and Dwalin. </p>
<p>Getting off the bus thirty minutes behind schedule, Bilbo ran into the brewery with a string of “Sorry I’m late”s. He noticed Balin and Dwalin standing by one of the tanks and talking to Bofur.</p>
<p>“Morning, Bilbo!” Balin said. “You’re allowed to run late every once in a while, but it seemed so out of character, we were almost going to send Bofur to find you!”  </p>
<p>“I overslept. It won’t happen again,” Bilbo said. He was flushed, and hoped it might hide the redness of his eyes.</p>
<p>Balin looked at him with what might have been pity. “Never you mind. Anyways, the label stickers came in, so we’re going to pull you away from your computer for the day. This is an every-man-on-deck job. Bofur’s here to help you.”</p>
<p>For their first official release of beers, everything had been so tight in terms of time that they were adding labels by hand. Dwalin had sealed several hundred portions of River Running Pale Ale in anonymous brown bottles, ready to be finished once the labels came in. </p>
<p>Bofur sliced open the box. He pulled out several sheets, each full with rows and columns of the stickers. Besides the logo, Bilbo had hand-drawn almost everything on the label: the storybook-style typography, the delicate texture of a sun-setting sky, and the river itself, bounding out of an opening in a far-off mountain and full of white rapids. Dwalin and Balin left the other two to start.</p>
<p>“Looks pretty true to life. Nice job,” Bofur said. The big warehouse was eternally cold, and so Bofur was tucked in to his signature ushanka hat and a canvas Carhartt jacket. Bilbo looked at him, tired and not knowing what he meant.</p>
<p>“The River Running,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh. I didn’t know it was… real,” Bilbo said. Dwalin had told him how to draw the mountain, but Bilbo thought he was just expressing his ideas in too much detail (as usual.)</p>
<p>“No?” Bofur shot him a kind look. He could clearly see he was having a bad morning. “Well, that’s the English translation, anyways. The River Running is the biggest river in Erebor, basically cuts the country in half. And you, my friend, made a very good representation, without even knowing it.”</p>
<p>Bilbo remembered, in detail now, what Thorin had told him last night. Erebor and it’s civil unrest. The violent deaths that had happened there. </p>
<p>“Thanks, I think. So you’re from there, too?”</p>
<p>“My parents are. I was born here and had never been there a day in my life until last year, when I took my mom back to see my grandmother,” Bofur said.</p>
<p>“Is it still, like, complicated, over there?” Bilbo asked, feeling stupid in his word choice.</p>
<p>Bofur’s mouth tightened. “It seems a lot better than the stories that my parents told. But people are still poor, we have a strongman president who does whatever he wants, and the ‘democracy’ part seems rigged as hell, if you ask me,” he said. He paused a beat, then continued. “Erebor is complicated. A lot of folks died there in the nineties. Even I could feel haunted walking through the streets, and I didn’t even lose anyone to the Desolation.”</p>
<p>“Unlike Thorin,” Bilbo said.</p>
<p>“Yes, unlike Thorin. He told you that? Poor guy. I remember when he moved over here, this kid my age who only knew ten words of English, and my parents told me to be friends with him. He didn’t open up for months! I heard he almost failed the seventh grade because he wouldn’t speak in class.”</p>
<p>Bilbo peeled off and placed a label. He hoped that Balin and Dwalin would find it charming that they were slightly crooked. Bofur was working far quicker than him, but didn’t seem to notice.</p>
<p>“So… did you? Befriend him, I mean,” Bilbo asked.“Eventually. We didn’t go to the same school, but all the Ereborians in the area gathered on the weekends. Usually we would sneak off to watch <em>Dragon Ball Z</em> in someone’s basement.”</p>
<p>“That’s sweet. I didn’t realize you’d all been friends for like twenty years, though.”</p>
<p>“Some of us, yeah,” Bofur said. Then he added, “When you’re an immigrant from a teeny country, you kind of know every other immigrant from said teeny country who’s around.”</p>
<p>“Makes sense,” Bilbo said. He suddenly felt insecure, however, knowing that Thorin and Bofur and the others had known each other for so long. Again he felt behind. Terrible circumstances had absorbed most of his twenties so far, and left him without many of the carefree experiences he always imagined he’d have. One’s twenties were such a mythologized decade. Euphoric late nights out, lovers and one-night-stands, trying ridiculous things without worry: but very little of these had materialized. And how could he ever know any of his new friends as well as they knew each other, with all the history they’d had? Or what if he told Thorin about his crush, but Thorin didn’t want to be with someone who hadn’t been in a relationship since college? These were the types of thoughts that swirled in Bilbo’s hungover brain, which was too tired to defend itself from its own anxiety. But then, he should probably be ashamed to be jealous of a group of refugees. He was being absurd.</p>
<p>After a long day of labelling beer bottles (and with slightly sore fingertips,) Bilbo returned to the house to see that Gandalf was back. The man was sitting with a book on the leather couch, deep in a book.</p>
<p>“Hi, Gandalf,” Bilbo said. “Good travels?”</p>
<p>“Bilbo Baggins! Yes, the trip was splendid, much accomplished,” Gandalf replied. He eyed the two empty wine bottles Bilbo had forgotten to clear last night. “You’ve been having guests, or did you imbibe both of these yourself? Not that I mind visitors, of course, but it’s always better to share drinks with a friend.”</p>
<p>Bilbo meekly cleared the bottles away for recycling. “No, not just me. Thorin Durinsen came over last night. A last-minute thing.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” Gandalf murmured approvingly. “Good for you.”</p>
<p>“He said he’d been over before. How do you know him? Another community potluck?” Bilbo asked, a bit sharply. The cloud of his bitter mood from earlier remained.</p>
<p>“Well, suddenly suspicious, Bilbo? I would never deny you details, if that’s what you crave: you only must ask,” Gandalf said. He gave Bilbo a searching look, but Bilbo’s face remained stern. “Years ago I became acquainted with some Ereborian immigrant communities in my work. I checked in on them regularly for a long time. For some of the youths I even gave music lessons. So, to answer your question: I taught a teenage Thorin how to play piano!”</p>
<p>Bilbo nodded. He was pleasantly surprised that Gandalf was speaking in specifics. (Though, as always, the nature of “his work” remained unclear.) “Thanks for telling me,” he said.</p>
<p>Gandalf then seemed to be struck with a burst of energy: he hopped up, and bid Bilbo to follow him to the kitchen. A pot of beans was simmering on the stove. He put the gleaming chrome kettle on next to it and lit the range. “Let’s have tea together, Bilbo. I wish to know all you’ve been up to.”</p>
<p>His hangover finally waning, Bilbo <em>was</em> feeling a bit more talkative. He felt like the past two days had contained a month’s worth of confusion. He filled Gandalf in on the brewery’s latest news, his album cover project for Thorin, his ignorance regarding the whole Erebor situation and of Thorin and Bofur’s correction of it. (“Though maybe you could have mentioned that,” he added.) He must have said the name “Thorin” twenty times. Each time he felt a small thrill when it passed his lips.</p>
<p>“Well, it seems to me you’ve been deepening your relationships! Well done. Especially with dear Thorin,” Gandalf winked. He served Bilbo a glass of bright yellow herbal tea.</p>
<p>“It’s not like that,” Bilbo muttered. He felt like some complaining, confused teen. “Well, maybe it is, for me. But Thorin is so busy. And Dori called him ‘emotionally unavailable’ the other day. Do you know what they mean by that?”</p>
<p>Gandalf didn’t respond right away. “I can’t say for sure... only that young Thorin has been through more than most people,” he said. “And he indeed has a lot of responsibilities. But if you feel a connection, Bilbo, I don’t think there’s a reason not to follow your instincts.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what I feel,” Bilbo moped. He was exhausted, and sliding into self-pity felt like the thing to do. He recalled the other times he had dated, years ago at this point. There would be some nice boy who caught his eye, and they would chat a few times. At the next college party, they would have enough horrible vodka mixed drinks that one of them would approach the other. Then they would dance and kiss (among the crowd of other undergrads dancing and kissing) before going to someone’s room for an inebriated hook-up. Sometimes they’d see each other again.</p>
<p>Compared to whatever slow burn exploration <em>might</em> be happening with Thorin, that seemed ridiculously easy.</p>
<p>Gandalf drained a pot of angel hair spaghetti that Bilbo hadn’t actually noticed him start. He tasted the beans and seemed satisfied, then turned off the range and plucked a bay leaf out of the pot. Moments later, Bilbo was being served a bowl of creamy cannellini beans over pasta, coated in grated parmesan. It smelled heavenly.</p>
<p>“You will sort through this,” Gandalf said. “I have faith in your abilities. Now, let’s eat.”</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>That night, Bilbo dreamt of wandering deep underground in a labyrinth of caves. At first, he didn’t know how to get out. But then saw a trail of gleaming golden buttons that led to a distant light. He tried to take a step towards the buttons, but couldn’t move. He was frozen. Something big and menacing was behind him--he couldn’t see it but knew it was there, encroaching, ready to capture. Then he saw Thorin some distance away, lit up and playing haunting music on a large golden harp. He looked beautiful. Bilbo cried out to him for help, and Thorin looked up, but didn’t stir. He merely went back to playing, leaving Bilbo frozen in the dark…</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The following weekend, The Mansion was merrily full: not packed, but with just enough non-roommates to make it feel like a buzzing hive. Bofur and Bombur decided it was “essential” to have all of their friends gather to watch Twin Peaks from the pilot episode on. (“Essential to our continuing friendship, that is!” Bombur had added.) Bilbo arrived last of all, as most of the house were already settling into the living area, a wide, high-ceilinged room where someone had managed to arrange three second-hand couches in a true feat of interior design.</p>
<p>He noticed Thorin and Dori huddled over a laptop in the kitchen. “That’s him!” he heard Thorin say. Bilbo approached and waited to see what they would do.</p>
<p>“Hi, Bilbo,” Dori said. Thorin’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “How are you? I promised I would look through our housing information from work to see about Thorin’s landlord. We’ll be done soon.”</p>
<p>“I see. What are you looking for?”</p>
<p>“To see what properties he owns, and if anyone’s ever filed complaints against him,” Dori explained. They turned the laptop around to show Bilbo. A headshot filled the screen: a white-blond man in a suit and tie with a smirking non-smile on his face. MR. THANDRUIL GREENE, the caption said.</p>
<p>“He came to the house today, <em>without the proper 24 hours notice</em>, and inspected it. Seeing if he can raise the rent and keep gentrifying the neighborhood,” said Thorin. “Smug bastard.”</p>
<p>“There’s some sketchy-looking complaints about security deposits,” Dori said. “I’ll look into it a little more tomorrow. But let’s go join the others.”</p>
<p>They eventually dragged Thorin away from the laptop. However, his dour mood didn’t lift, and he sat grim-faced all through Agent Dale Cooper’s journey to Twin Peaks. By episode two, he stopped pretending to watch and scrolled ceaselessly on his phone until he decided to call an early night. With a terse goodbye, he was gone.</p>
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